


But Then, Face to Face

by Dreaming_Spire



Series: Proxy [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Implied Johnlock/other, M/M, Other, Post-Fall, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 21:57:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_Spire/pseuds/Dreaming_Spire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i><b>For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.</b></i><br/>What's John been doing? Surviving, if only just. Even a support group proves to have its challenges.<br/>Set during the events of <i>Proxy</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	But Then, Face to Face

John sat on the folding chair, hideously uncomfortable in more ways than one. A grief support group - how pathetic. Just the idea of the group, and his own presence, not the others as individuals. The part of his brain that remembered how to be a doctor, how to care for others' pain, ached for them. They were trying to recover, to learn to work around an injury as crippling as any physical wound. He ought to know. No, he was the one who felt weak. Elsa would say he was being too critical, that others in the room felt that, that feelings weren't weakness. But Sherlock would loathe this, and Sherlock was -

He clamped off that thought before the wound bled more.

Coming back to himself, he looked around. All of these people looked a mess, and immediately, he was ashamed of himself for the thought. Their worlds had ended, and so had his. Who was he to judge? He knew well enough how he looked. Every helpful, hollow smile, every consoling comment, every pitying look was a mirror that said "You're a wreck, John." So, really, here he was at home.

Home. Not Baker Street, not any more. The flat was still full of Sherlock, positively overflowing with his absence. He'd promised Mrs. Hudson, and through her, Mycroft, that he'd help clear it out, but not just yet. There was time, she'd said, and he'd heard Mycroft's echoing agreement, there was no great rush. Any time would be soon enough, as long as it wasn't now. Nothing had settled, and they could steal some time keeping it unreal, while the hard truth fell into its immoveable place. "Telling the bees," she'd muttered, dabbing at her eyes.

So home wasn't there. Where it was, John didn't know. There was no genius to see, to know, to tell him, or to lead him to the truth. There were only these other lost and wounded, and none of them had any maps. 

Like any other casualty ward, there was an spectrum of the severity of injuries. John could see the ones who were nearly there, nearly ready to attempt the world in halting, unsteady steps, along with the ones who could stride easily except for the things in their head holding them back, screaming that it couldn't really be time, that whatever healing was only an illusion. There were the ones who were just breathing because that's all they could manage now, one hard, aching breath after the next, and the ones who were sinking by inches, just moments from slipping under and away. He wondered which he looked like. He was too close to his own case, couldn't tell, would have pronounced himself dead at the scene, and said the John Watson everyone else thought they saw, the man in the room, was only a ghost. So, dead, alive or some unholy mix of both, he sat and listened while other people spoke.

Again, he felt shabby for not listening, but there was only so much he could do; only so much he could bear - and his own loss was well past his limits. He felt selfish, but their pain added to his would drag him under for sure. The only thing he could be certain of in this unreal half-life he had left was that Sherlock would have wanted him to live, and painful as it was, John dragged himself day-to-day. But he couldn't listen.

That is, until one voice ripped into him. Unlike the others, this one was steady, and not cold, but calm. The speaker wasn't holding back; this was how his grief was, present and hard. John looked at the man, and sucked in a breath. Good looking, in a hard, rough way, hadn't unraveled in grief, let himself get sloppy, ignoring his dress or his person. Hair still regulation standards-neat, features set for battle with everyday life, and eyes that reflected nothing of a soul. Ex-military, then, like himself, but not as far removed as John. This man was still conditioned, body and mind. Royal Marines, he'd bet his life on it, and he was a type John hadn't known existed before he went to war, one he'd tried to leave behind with the other ugly glimpses into what people could become. This man hadn't been forged into a weapon - he'd been born one.

Some people joined the armed forced to try to do some good. If John were honest, his reasons leaned more towards the financial, but he liked to think he'd had some altruism, as well as a sense of duty. Plenty of others had had that, a need to serve, to fulfill and formalize some sort of personal contract with Queen and Country, and others simply needed the money. Some wanted direction. Some wanted glory. Some wanted blood. He'd thought those would be the worst, but even among those, some were helpless against their own natures, trying to turn the savagery in themselves to some better, purer use. But there were ones like this man. They did it because there was no reason not to. What they enjoyed was their skill, if anything, because nothing outside touched them in any way. Here was one of John Watson's nightmares made real, and he was speaking; the most terrible part, though, was that the words could have been pouring from John's mouth.

"Special. Everyone he met knew he was, knew he was realer than anyone in the room. People fucking hated him for that. He didn't care. 'Specially after he met me, because I had his back. Knew more about me when he laid eyes on me than I ever had - you don't know what that's like. It's fucking magic. I didn't say that. Didn't have to. He knew that, too. He made the world live, bent it around to suit him, fuck anyone who didn't like it. He made me part of that.” Not defensive, not clinging, just proud, as if his story didn’t end the same way as all this room’s stories.

It did. Why else would anyone be here? One moment of hesitation, emotionless eyes flickering at the audience, before the facts. “He picked a fight with some posh tosser. I told him to leave it, to let it go. He didn't, and now –“ 

Anyone else, John would say had trailed off. This man froze, then skipped forward in his story, past the terrible it, the thing too big to say, into the after-shaped now.

"He'd say it was stupid, that he knew what he was doing, but I could have done something to stop it, anything. Now he's gone. I'm not saying some fucking shite like he's here with me. He's gone. Not coming back."

John thought he'd lost his mind. The man was looking at him, was speaking his words to him, was a twisted, heartless reflection of himself, and for a moment, it seemed he was glaring like John had blood on his hands. "I'm still here. I won't ever be what he was. But fuck if I won't let the world know he was here, too."

No more. No more of this, too much. John rose up and limped out, as quickly as his leg allowed. His chest compressed, his own breath clogged hard into his lungs, so that he gulped for air when he staggered back into the street.


End file.
